


The Adventure of the Vengeful Clockmaker

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: In late December of 1894, Dr. Watson is subjected to strange pranks which, for some reason, Mr. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t take lightly.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94





	The Adventure of the Vengeful Clockmaker

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many, many thanks to my amazing beta, **Recently Folded**. Your thoughtful corrections and suggestions made the story so much better!

There are cases I chronicle not for the sake of publishing but to preserve fond memories associated with them. Then the painstaking editing is unnecessary, and everything can be told as it was. 

Yesterday, whilst sorting through old documents, I came across a photograph of Holmes in one of his funniest disguises. Upon consulting my journal of the corresponding period, I found that the entries were too concise and didn’t cover all the circumstances of the case, so I decided to write out a proper account. 

That story began on the 20th of December, 1894, when I was dressing for a meeting with my army comrades. On a whim I dug out from the chest my old uniform and tried it on, wishing to check whether it fitted. Surprisingly, it did, although on the previous occasion, five years earlier, I considered myself to be somewhat stout for it.

As I was turning in front of the mirror, the door opened and Holmes entered the bedroom. He stopped in his tracks, giving me a long, appreciating gaze. Then he walked up to me and embraced me from behind.

“You are still too thin,” he murmured into my ear.

“Perhaps I should remain so?” 

“Even though the uniform becomes you, absolutely not.” 

Our time of separation hadn’t been easy on either of us. While Sherlock didn’t care about his own thinness, he took mine very seriously, so our meals were more nutritious, our visits to the gymnasium more frequent, and our workload less strenuous than of old.

“You have a weakness for soldiers,” I remarked.

“For one soldier in particular,” he said, trailing kisses down my neck.

“Later tonight. I must go now.” I pulled away reluctantly. 

“Well, if you must, you must,” he replied with a dramatic sigh.

The meeting with my army friends in a pub was merry. It was good to know that everybody present was in good health and content with their occupations, most of them married and raising children. They were rather amused by my showing up in the uniform. It prompted vivid reminiscences which complemented each other and just had to be written down. I took notes, contemplating a collection of stories about those rough-and-tumble days, but then the conversation drifted to Holmes’s return. Answering numerous questions as truthfully as possible without giving away too much, I was warmed by the thought that he was waiting for me at home.

Finally, we called it a night and exchanged promises to meet again in another few years. Putting on my hat, I felt something knock me lightly on the head. Upon checking, it turned out to be a big walnut. My tipsy comrades roared with laughter, exclaiming that the prank was hilarious, but nobody confessed.

“Perhaps Mr. Holmes will solve this mystery,” Colonel Hayter said and winked.

When I came back home, I did relate the details to Holmes, in spite of the silliness of the whole thing.

“The data is insufficient,” Holmes said, locking our bedroom door with a mischievous grin.

This occurrence would have been soon forgotten, had it not been followed by a second strange incident the next afternoon. Having sold my Kensington practice at Holmes’s request several months prior, I had gradually started to miss my profession, so in November I purchased a much smaller practice in Queen Anne Street. Thus I could stay in touch with medicine and be available whenever Holmes needed, since it was but a ten minute cab drive to Baker Street.

With only a handful of patients to take care of, my consulting hours weren’t long. I was already finishing at half past two, as usual, when suddenly there was a clang of the bell in the hall. I wondered whether it was an unscheduled patient or Holmes arrived to whisk me away on some business. However, no sound of steps could be heard from the hall.

“Who is it, Clara?” I called the maid.

She came in with a perplexed look on her face, holding a plain table clock.

“There was no one, Doctor. I found this clock in front of the door.”

“Good Heavens, Clara, I warned you against picking up anything left by unidentified persons. It’s a matter of your own safety first and foremost,” I chided her.

Professor Moriarty was dead, but I couldn’t help but remain on my guard. 

“It’s just a broken clock, sir,” Clara said apologetically. “Seems rather harmless. A piece of junk. I’ll throw it away.”

“No, put it here, on my desk, please. You may go.”

Clara shrugged her shoulders and did as she was told. I examined the clock closely, trying to employ Holmes’s methods. It was a fine JJ Elliott clock in a square wooden case, relatively inexpensive and thus affordable to an average lower middle class family. The glass dial cover was shattered and a big crack ran across the left side of the case. The back panel arrested my attention—it had been crudely forced.

At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary inside. Without a magnifying glass I couldn’t determine whether the metal lid protecting the mechanism had been tampered with. Then I sensed a familiar chemical scent and noticed something black at the bottom of the wooden case. As I tilted the clock carefully, tiny particles spilled out onto the surface of my desk. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of gunpowder.

I sent Clara to Baker Street with a note for Holmes and remained on the doorstep, smoking. Holmes came at once; a quick, relieved smile passed over his lips when he saw me, and then he proceeded to my consulting-room.

“The mechanism hasn’t been touched for about a decade, since the clock was made,” he said, scrutinising the lid through a powerful lens. “The thin layer of dust around the screws is undisturbed.”

“So there are definitely no surprises inside?” I asked.

“Definitely. This also implies that the clock wasn’t a part of a time-bomb either. Perhaps it was used as a hiding place for a primitive bomb or someone simply poured gunpowder inside the case.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Indeed, why?”

Holmes put down his lens, leaned back in the chair, and pressed his fingertips together.

“The clock was owned by a neat and diligent person until some unfortunate incident. It takes considerable violence to damage so badly such a sturdy specimen. Is this incident connected to the presence of gunpowder inside the clock? What about yesterday’s walnut episode? What is relevant and what is not? There’s much to think about.”

Back at home he spent the rest of the day in deep meditation with the old black clay pipe between his lips and the Persian slipper at his side. When I retired for the night, I was surprised that he followed me soon after and didn’t stay up as used to be his wont. This was one of the changes in him, seemingly small and insignificant but in actuality of great importance, which made me love him even more. Through such subtle things he showed how he cherished the time we were granted together. Now we both had learned to treasure it, for we had realised that it was as finite as were our very lives.

Half-asleep, I could feel him tossing and turning next to me, and when I woke up in the morning, he was sitting in bed, his back propped against the pillow.

“Have you slept at all?” I asked.

“I have,” he replied, the pensive expression of his eyes softening. “Are you game for a walk and sparring after breakfast?”

I agreed eagerly. He must have contemplated every possibility and arrived at the conclusion that there was no better course of action than to step away from the problem for a while. 

Having consumed Mrs. Hudson’s delicious breakfast, we took our carpet-bags and strolled to the gymnasium, enjoying the crisp morning air. It was a good warm-up before our vigorous exercise. Keeping fit requires diligence as one gets older, so we sparred until we were drenched in sweat and flushed with exertion. I had to restrain myself not to ogle Holmes with his hair askew, his nostrils flaring and his cheeks coloured, his damp shirt clinging to his chest… At the same time, his gaze travelled along my body, titillating me. That was the usual peril of our training together. Ever since our reunion we found it a bit too difficult to be discreet in such instances. 

We finished our session before we could become outrageously obvious. As we headed to the dressing-room, Holmes was discoursing upon the ways our training regimen could be improved, mentioning various practices he had studied on the Continent. Suddenly he fell silent mid-sentence. On the bench beside our lockers there was a small crate with a narrow strip of paper pasted to it. The message contained only two words: 

> Sherlock Holmes

Holmes asked the other people in the room, but no one seemed to have seen the person who had placed the crate onto the bench. He warned everyone to stay away, took his stick, and carefully removed the cover from the crate. Inside we discovered a cheap wooden toy shaped as two boxers with dangling arms and a lever which pushed them back and forth. The curious onlookers were disappointed.

“Another silly prank,” I said, mildly annoyed.

Holmes didn’t reply. There was clearly something on his mind, for he didn’t utter a word during our hurried walk back to Baker Street. Once at home, he studied the toy minutely, smelled the crate, and then wrote a note which he sent off with Billy. It was only after that that he bathed. Half an hour later, when Billy returned with a reply, Holmes went out immediately.

I could make neither head nor tail of this queer business. The toy was ordinary and absolutely new, so it offered no information as to its previous owner, had there been any at all. The crate smelled of lye soap. The meaning of this detail escaped me, which added to my frustration and confusion.

Whatever Holmes was doing, it took him until tea-time. His face betrayed nothing regarding the results of his outing, and all evening he spoke only of unrelated matters. As usual in such situations, I didn’t try to force his confidence. If he chose not to share, then he wasn’t ready yet. 

The next day he rummaged in the wardrobe in his room for about two hours, and when he emerged, I dropped my newspaper and burst out laughing. Holmes was unrecognisable in his attire of Father Christmas, wearing red coat and hood, bushy white beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. His his cheeks were ruddy, and his figure was completely transformed, having attained almost Mycroftian corpulence. 

“Convincing or ridiculous?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Perfect,” I assured him. “Just wait a minute before you go.”

I dashed to the bookcase, took the camera from the shelf, and snapped a picture of him. Chuckling, Sherlock headed to the door with Mycroft’s heavy tread.

Long hours passed in anticipation, and while I tried to busy myself with reading and writing, my thoughts would wander off to the recent chain of events. Finally, Holmes came back. The twinkle had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by steely resolve. He cast off the wig, the false beard, and the rest of his disguise until he remained in his shirt-sleeves and trousers. His brow furrowed, he sank onto the sofa. My instincts told me that his quest had not been fruitless, and yet he had a chagrined air about him.

“The padded suit is so cumbersome,” he said.

“But that’s not what really bothers you,” I observed, handing him a damp flannel so that he could remove his make-up.

He shook his head.

“Let me guess. The case took a grave turn. We are not going to Edinburgh for Christmas, aren’t we?”

“I’m very sorry, John. You put so much effort into arranging it and I was looking forward to visiting the city of your birth on a vacation for once, not on business.”

This development was indeed vexing, but it seemed even more so for Sherlock. After his return his priorities had shifted, and he tried very hard to keep a balance between work and our personal life. 

“Well, we can go another time,” I said gently.

“Perhaps for the New Year instead?” Sherlock pressed my hand. “But for now, we must stay in London to prevent an explosion at Hamleys.”

“What! The toy emporium!” 

“Yes. On Boxing Day Lord Roxton and his wife will give presents to the children of the poor, and their son, the famous traveller, will read a lecture about his adventures.”

“Then this charity event shall be used as an opportunity to attack an MP and his family, with numerous children as innocent victims? By whom? Anarchists?” 

“One of the vilest of their kind. I first encountered George Saville in February of this year in Paris, when his accomplice Émile Henry hurled a bomb into the Café Terminus.”

“Henry was caught and later executed. I read about it.”

“The whole group would have been, had it not been for the blunders of the French police.” 

Holmes snorted with distaste. Then he rose, went to his desk, and brought me a small book. The name on the cover was unfamiliar to me. It was a collection of poetry: lyrical, beautiful verses imbued with Gothic mysticism and decadence that belonged to the pen of a talented author.

“Besides being a ruthless murderer, Saville writes under a nom-de-plume. A multifaceted personality—unusual criminals often are,” Holmes elaborated. “Born of impoverished gentlefolk, he had high hopes for an illustrious military career serving in artillery. Those hopes were cut short by the Siege of Khartoum during the Mahdist war, when he contracted cholera and barely survived. Upon being invalided, he became disillusioned, blaming the Crown for all his woes, and thus joined anarchists. His skills as a mechanic proved especially useful in the preparation of intricate infernal machines.”

“Good God,” I muttered. “His biography almost mirrors mine. I do remember that disillusioned state. Who knows? Had we not met, I could have grown to hate the whole world too.”

“Never,” Sherlock said, patting my hand. “Not with a heart like yours.”

I smiled, warmed by his confidence.

“But how did a walnut, a clock, and a figurine lead you to the trail of this anarchist? And who sent them?”

“We’ll have a chance to talk to that person later. As for the messages, it was a long shot in the beginning. The first one didn’t tell me much, but it was enough to draw my attention. When you received the second one, I became almost certain it was a coded warning. Both you and I immediately arrived at the simplest inference it suggested: a time bomb. The hands were set at three o’clock, possibly for a purpose, which would mean that the explosion was to occur in the afternoon or in the dead of night. If so, where and when? And why did the sender approach you rather than me if it was in my line of work?”

“The third message was addressed to you, though.”

“Yes, and it clarified matters a great deal. Note that it was delivered not to Baker Street, but to the gymnasium we frequent. The proprietor would surely notify me of its discovery the very day, had we not been there. Or, likelier still, the sender saw us. Why not just speak to me then?”

“Perhaps that person was afraid?”

“Exactly. Nevertheless, the message contained all the necessary information: the figurine had a label from Hamleys which answered the question of the place.”

“And the shape of two boxers hinted at Boxing Day!” I exclaimed.

“Imaginative, isn’t it?” Holmes said, smiling. “The sender must have prepared and posted the parcel in relative safety, for the strip of paper with my name is cut out and pasted with flour paste in a neat, careful fashion. You recognised, of course, the print.”

I picked up the crate from the side-table and examined the letters.

“It does seem familiar.”

“It’s from a page in _The_ _Strand_.” Holmes chuckled at my widened eyes and lengthened face. “The sender is your ardent reader who obviously took to heart the lesson about typewriters and handwriting.” 

“This person must be stalking us,” I said, appalled. “The pub, my surgery, and the gymnasium.” 

“No, we are not being watched. But you do have a point,” Holmes replied cryptically. “Anyway, after the third message my theory was complete. I checked the news related to Hamleys and found out that indeed Lord Roxton’s charity event was to start at half-past two on the 26th of December. One would need unhindered access to the premises to set the time the night prior, supposing that the bomb had already been installed. Therefore, it was very likely that the criminal was one of the employees. I contacted the manager of Hamleys, explained my concerns, and asked whether I could come instead of the actor who entertained the buyers to see if there was a familiar face among the staff. Indeed there was. Saville—under an assumed name, naturally—works there as a maker of mechanical toys and clocks. The Irregulars are now shadowing him, and if we are lucky, we may catch his accomplices as well.”

“What if you hadn’t observed a criminal known to you?”

“The charity event would have been cancelled. It would have prevented this attack, but, sadly, not future ones, and next time we could receive no warnings.”

“The police are apprised of the situation, I take it?”

“Certainly. Lestrade shall be in ambush with us at Christmas after the store is closed for the night, and constables shall watch the exits.”

“So for now all there is to do is wait?”

“At least we’ll get to spend Christmas Eve properly. For the first time in three years,” Sherlock murmured. “Oh, by the way, while I was impersonating St. Nicholas, it occured to me why the first message was a walnut. There is a large collection of nutcracker dolls at Hamleys, and you in your scarlet uniform must have given the sender the idea.”

“You still haven’t said who it was and how you identified him.”

“But you like to be intrigued, don’t you?”

Holmes grinned, his eyes twinkling again. I had an urge to smack him, yet he was right, and I just heaved a sigh.

“I heard there is a ballet called _The Nutcracker_ , with a score composed by Tchaikovsky,” he said.

“It hasn’t been performed outside Russia yet,” I replied. “According to the press, it was not a success.”

“I’d like to see it someday, if only for Tchaikovsky’s music.”

We spent Christmas Eve quietly, having ordered a nice dinner from Simpson’s. With Mrs. Hudson gone to her daughter’s in Fulham, we had the house to ourselves and lounged upon our bearskin hearthrug the whole evening. The years of separation and loneliness had passed; we didn’t dwell on the sad memories but enjoyed the present instead, getting the most out of it. 

On Christmas Day we slept until afternoon, for the following night would be a long one. Judging by delicious smells from downstairs which woke us up, Mrs. Hudson had returned and was preparing a festive dinner for the Irregulars. We had gifts for them too: good winter clothes to keep them warm and ensure that none caught cold. When the clamorous squad arrived, they reported to Holmes excitedly the results of their mission. They had located every member of Saville’s anarchist group and informed Lestrade, as per Holmes’s directions. It pleased Holmes very much, and the dinner we had all together was delightful. 

The Irregulars departed at about eight o’clock in the evening, with full stomachs and happy with their new outfits.

“Many of them could have been among the hapless victims of the Hamleys bombing, had there been no warning messages,” I said grimly as Holmes and I were looking at them through the window.

Holmes nodded, cold anger flaring up in his eyes.

“Yes, the messages were a godsend,” he replied. “Let’s hope that all goes well tonight.”

We turned away from the window, and our gazes fell on the Christmas tree Mrs. Hudson had decorated in that homely, heartwarming way so dear to us both. 

“I still haven’t given you my present,” Sherlock said in a soft tone.

From the inner pocket of his jacket he took out a small, oblong parcel and handed it to me. I opened it; inside was a case containing an exquisite custom-made pen.

“Even though I asked you not to publish new stories for now, do write, John. I treasure your works in spite of my quibbling. Your readers are looking forward to them, and the ripe time will come.”

“Thank you,” I said, as deeply touched by the sentiment as by the gift itself. “I also have something for you.”

I got a present for him from my valise. Sherlock smiled fondly as he unwrapped a mahogany briar pipe. Then he raised an eyebrow, having noticed that the mouthpiece was detachable and that the stem concealed a stiletto blade.

“For your collection,” I explained. “Thought it would amuse you.”

“It may prove rather handy yet,” Sherlock replied. 

At midnight, armed and prepared, we set out to Regent Street on foot. In half an hour, as we were approaching Hamleys, we turned onto Kingly Street and stopped by the servant’s entrance of the house adjacent to the store. Holmes tapped on the door and we were let in at once.

“My men are at their posts, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said in a low voice, and Holmes nodded.

We went through a series of corridors and back rooms and finally found ourselves in the gallery overlooking the main hall of Hamleys. Even for me, an adult, the place seemed magical, like a miniature town: finely crafted dollhouses, trains, carriages, pretty dolls dressed up in the latest fashion, and countless other toys of all sizes and shapes imaginable. In the centre of the hall, there was a magnificent Christmas tree glittering in the semi-darkness and an enormous clock castle, a real masterpiece, with turrets and a drawbridge. 

Lestrade descended the stairs and hid under the counter closest to the Christmas tree while Holmes and I remained in the shadows of the gallery, from which we could observe everything below. Our waiting stretched ahead for hours, but I was only happy to be at Holmes’s side, for there had been a time when I had had no hope of ever sharing it with him again.

At last, our patience was rewarded. The criminal was so assured of himself that he entered the store through the front door, apparently having procured duplicates of the keys. He was carrying a dark lantern, and its subdued light illuminated a refined face with regular, strong-willed features. One would never take that man for a cold-blooded murderer, so deceitful his appearance was.

Saville approached the clock castle, put the lantern on the drawbridge, and opened the gates of the castle. He had barely reached into the innards of the clock when there was a click of a pistol being cocked and Lestrade sprang forward.

“Don’t move, Saville,” the Inspector said in a calm, measured tone.

At the same instant Holmes and I dashed down the stairs. Saville ignored Lestrade ostentatiously, and just as Lestrade was about to grab him, Saville attacked the Inspector. We ran up to them in mere seconds, but the fight was already over—Saville had got hold of Lestrade’s weapon, hooked an arm around Lestrade’s neck from behind, and pressed the barrel to Lestrade’s head.

“Drop your pistols,” Saville ordered. “Good. So, we meet again, _Monsieur Gerard_ , although now I know your real name. And this must be Dr. Watson, I believe.”

“The game is up, Saville,” Holmes said flatly. “Your accomplices are in prison and the building is surrounded by police. You can’t escape.”

“I don’t mean to,” Saville answered. “The clock is ticking. In five minutes we all shall be blown to pieces.”

“You’re bluffing,” I said.

Amusement passed over Saville’s expressive face.

“Inspector?” he pushed the pistol against Lestrade’s temple.

“He’s not,” Lestrade hissed. “He did start the mechanism.”

“You could let me kill the Inspector and try to apprehend me, Holmes. But no, you and the doctor are too noble for that, of course,” Saville sneered. “Then I shall accomplish something even the great Professor Moriarty could not. What a way to go!” 

“You? Ready to die? Really? You, who’d rather sacrifice children than yourself,” Holmes said with contempt.

They were staring at each other, Saville’s attention focused fully on Holmes. Knowing Holmes so well, I realised that he was distracting Saville, relying upon me to act. I glanced around frantically.

“I’m sorry about the children, but had I succeeded, the end would have justified the means. Others shall come in my stead,” Saville cried, losing his composure. “This government must fall! The monarchy must fall, for it has outlived its usefulness. It treats its finest people as canon-fodder and idolises such fools as General Gordon—”

I kicked the pile of presents at the foot of the Christmas tree and they scattered about, rattling and ringing. While Saville was confused momentarily by the commotion, Lestrade saw his chance to hit him in the ribs and push him away. Saville bolted off; I darted after him, and Lestrade followed. Finding his way easily in the dark reaches of the store, Saville made abrupt changes of direction, jumped over the furniture, and tried to disappear from sight, but I was always at his heels. Twice he shot over his shoulder indiscriminately, and when that failed to produce results, he turned to aim. That was when I caught up with him, grabbed him by the hand, and twisted it until he let go of the pistol. He began to struggle, but I knocked him out with a left hook. 

In a few moments Lestrade caught up too, panting, and fastened hand-cuffs on Saville’s wrists. However, Lestrade was alone, without Holmes. My heart pounding in terror, I dashed back to the main hall. Five minutes must have already elapsed and there had been no explosion, yet I sighed in relief only upon seeing him by the clock castle, alive and well.

“It’s all right. I disarmed the bomb,” Holmes said, rising from his knees.

The small dagger in his hand was none other than the one I had so recently presented him.

“Good to hear it, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade called from a distance and blew his whistle.

Plain-clothes men rushed in, and soon they were walking Saville out to a four-wheeler. I longed to hug Holmes but had to refrain from it. He gave me a gentle look, aware of my feelings. 

We were provided with another carriage to take us home, and before we departed Lestrade came and shook us by the hands.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said.

“The same to you, Inspector,” Holmes replied warmly. 

“Mine is, with a gift like that.” Lestrade grinned.

It was half past three in the morning as Holmes and I were rattling along empty streets, blinds drawn, almost dozing off in each other’s arms. Our work was done and we were happy that many people, including our clamorous young friends, were now safe.

On Boxing Day, just after we had enjoyed a late breakfast, Lord Roxton and his son called upon us with congratulations. The son, being a seasoned adventurer, was somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t been informed of Saville’s plans and hadn’t participated in his arrest. Lord Roxton offered Holmes a princely reward, but Holmes declined it, taking instead Lord Roxton’s word of honour to establish a school for poor children with a stipend so that their families wouldn’t need to send them to work. Indeed, Lord Roxton kept his word and the school is open to this day, changing lives for the better, while the Roxtons’ Boxing Day charity event became an annual tradition. 

By noon we had another, much humbler visitor. A timid-looking lady in her sixties wearing a worn, dark dress was ushered into our sitting-room. Her face was round and good-natured, her shoulders stooped, and her hands red and coarse.

“Take a seat, Mrs. Langley, and make yourself comfortable,” Holmes greeted her with an easy courtesy, motioning her to the sofa. “Watson, allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Ellen Langley, who works as a charwoman at Hamleys and at the gymnasium you and I attend.”

“So this is our mysterious sender? I am delighted to meet you, madam,” I exclaimed. 

“But I am such a coward,” Mrs. Langley replied, blushing and shaking her head. “I was so afraid for my own life that I couldn’t bring myself to come to Baker Street and left those vague cues instead.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Langley, you have been truly brave,” Holmes assured her. “Despite your fear, you didn’t stay silent. I must commend you on your method of communication. It was rather ingenious.”

“Rumour has it and Doctor Watson’s writings confirm that you can understand much from very little, sir. My grandchildren and I love to play charades, you see.” Mrs. Langley lowered her eyes and smiled. 

“Would you tell us how you learned of the impending explosion?” Holmes asked.

Mrs. Langley fidgeted anxiously, and Holmes put a calming hand upon her shoulder. She nodded, visibly more at ease.

“On Thursday evening last week I was delayed at the store, for there was much to do before Christmas,” she said. “It was already late, and the store was closed. When I was cleaning the lumber room in the gallery, I was surprised to hear noises from the main hall. Curiosity got the better of me, so I went to the balustrade as carefully as possible and peeped down. Below, the new toymaker seemed to be repairing the big clock. Poor fellow, I thought, he has a lot of work too. But then he finished quickly and stepped aside, arms akimbo.

“‘On Boxing Day at three everything shall be over,’ he said. ‘Lord Roxton shall have the taste of my dynamite.’

“He said it quietly, to himself, but his voice carried quite well in the empty hall. I stood paralysed with horror while he left, whistling carelessly.

“For half an hour I remained there frozen to the spot, fearing that he might return. At last I managed to sneak out. I was at my wit’s end. What if the police wouldn’t believe me? What if he would learn that I talked to the police? Surely, he would do away with me! 

“I’m not of the drinking kind, but that night I needed a glass of brandy. I went to the nearest pub, and great Heavens above, Dr. Watson was there too! I sometimes see you both at the gymnasium, sirs, but I would never dare to bother you with an idle conversation. Even with a pressing matter I didn’t have the heart to approach you, Doctor. Your uniform reminded me of the toy soldiers and nutcrackers at Hamleys, and on the spur of the moment I dropped a walnut into your hat.

“All night I didn’t sleep a wink, racking my brain how to give Mr. Holmes a clue. In the morning I picked up a discarded broken clock, put some gunpowder into it, and adjusted its hands. Through acquaintances I found out the address of Dr. Watson’s practice.

“The next day I obtained a boxing toy made at Hamleys and packed it with every precaution, but of course that wasn’t enough to throw you off the scent, Mr. Holmes. I left the box surreptitiously at the gymnasium and was about to draw the proprietor’s attention to it when by sheer chance you and Dr. Watson came yourselves.

“This morning, having received a telegram from you, sir, I was immensely relieved to hear that you had put that villain behind bars.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Langley. Without your help we wouldn’t have been able to do that,” Holmes said cordially. “Please accept this as a token of our gratitude.”

He handed Mrs. Langley a five pound note which she took, completely dazed.

“And this is a special delivery from the Hamleys management for your granddaughter and grandson,” Holmes continued, ringing the bell. 

Billy brought in a beautiful doll and a lovely set of toy soldiers. Mrs. Langley nearly cried. We had tea with the dear old lady and then Billy accompanied her home with the presents. 

“Was it only the smell of lye soap which led you to the conclusion it was the charwoman?” I asked Holmes in astonishment.

“It was suggestive,” Holmes replied, lighting his pipe. “I wondered who could walk about in the gymnasium, in the streets, at the pub, and at the store absolutely unnoticed. Every person in the gymnasium is known to me, but who could be so inconspicuous? A servant. Somebody most people take for granted. My conjecture was confirmed when I saw not one but two familiar faces among the staff of the store. And then, to be absolutely sure, I visited Mrs. Langley and talked to her.”

Later that day, at Hamleys, Holmes played Father Christmas again as an encore, much to all of the children’s delight, including the Irregulars. Every child was presented with a splendid toy, and it was wonderful to see their joyous, glowing faces, untroubled by hardships at least for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Émile Henry: a French anarchist who threw a bomb at the Café Terminus in Paris on February 12, 1894. One person died and twenty were wounded.
> 
> Siege of Khartoum: General Gordon and his troops were besieged by the Mahdi from March 12, 1884 to January 26, 1885. Eventually the city fell and General Gordon was killed.
> 
> Lord Roxton: see _The Lost World_ novel by ACD.
> 
> Monsieur Gerard: Holmes’s French alias was inspired by Brigadier Gerard. The stories about Brigadier Gerard were published in _The Strand Magazine_ between 1894 and 1903—roughly the same time ACD kept Holmes killed off until officially reviving him in EMPT.


End file.
